By Margaret Gibson
One physique is Margaret Gibson's such a lot intimate choice of poems to date. Written as though to honor the injunction "Work to simplify the heart," the poems are direct, empathetic, and gentle of their learn of lifestyles and dying. The 13 poems of the hole series, in addition to different poems all through, glance progressively at existence and dying until eventually they're transparently "one body." "Closer to death," she writes, "I wish nice religion and nice doubt." even if the focal point is own or social, Gibson has written the poems during this beautiful assortment "because i would like to determine / how the physique is going nonetheless / how the brain, how the lens of the attention / magnifies to an vacancy / so deep, so flared huge / there's all over the place box and the resource / of field." One physique is the paintings of a richly contemplative poet.I was once attracted to it maybe due to its colour, mysterious because the outdated Russian cry to God, gospodi. i didn't bow to it.My backbone straightened as I stood quietly there to check its architectural trinities,petals that opened down as though to the touch damp earth, 3 that lifted skyward, shut sufficient to make a tent,a sanctuary in which 3 extra, lavender and yellow, hovered overthe pistil, white and nonetheless. I remembered the door in my previous dream, past which, I as soon as suggestion, the riddle of delivery and demise lay revealed.The door used to be white. It was once shining. It was once shut-- yet no. It wasn't close. It wasn't even a door. It used to be the sunshine of a unmarried eye.Whatever i glance at, it seems to be back.From "Iris" released in a single Bodyby Margaret Gibson. Copyright © 2007 by way of Margaret Gibson. All rights reserved.PRAISE FOR THE BOOK"Though by no means shirking their helpful engagement with the darker truths, Margaret Gibson's poems are consistently acts of exuberant affirmation."--Eamon Grennan80 pages, 5.5 x nine
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Additional info for One Body: Poems
I take the words into my body. Take them, sister, into yours. They are light. Or let me rub them lightly on your skin, oil of lavender, oil of rosemary and rue. Alone in the body’s dark nights, in its gardens and hovels, in its rivers and mountains and many rooms, together we lie down. indd 63 7/13/07 1:09:11 PM c o oking supper while my sister die s She takes her last meal of sugar water and oblivion, the needle keen as a knife, a double-edged bridge she must cross into the Unsayable. Wait, I say, wait— but she will not, nor can I go with her, delay in each grain of rice, exile in the onions I chop so ﬁne I am word blind, my face wet with the rain that was her grief, and mine, that we did not love each other long enough.
There were no cars on the road that passed over the turnpike. The ground to my left fell steeply away beyond the guard rail into an alcove of wasteland. Ironweed, broken bottles, wire. No way to avoid him, I held his gaze. I let him know I saw him, too— although now I recall how sexless was the squeeze he gave my breast. Not tentative—no, no. It was deliberate, if also dispassionate. He might have been trying a goat’s teat before milking it. Puckish, too. I could do more, but I won’t, said his hand, his mouth ruled in a straight line of shutness.
It was deliberate, if also dispassionate. He might have been trying a goat’s teat before milking it. Puckish, too. I could do more, but I won’t, said his hand, his mouth ruled in a straight line of shutness. All the way downhill, from the moment I understood he was coming for me, his eyes—blue, cold, hard as he was on the saddle seat of his chrome and steel speed bike— held mine, screwdriver to screw. I looked into the gaze of a loathing so transparent I understood that the dark spirits of rape, ethnic cleansing, interrogation, and self-hatred were distilled there in a mockery of the lover’s gaze— so that after he poked me, squeezed, and let me live I thought in numb denial, So I have been bruised by a god.
One Body: Poems by Margaret Gibson